THE LITERATURE OF IRELAND

New Zealand Tablet, 21 April 1921, Page 17

THE LITERATURE OF IRELAND

-At a banquet of the 'B2 Club, held in the Pillar Room of the Rotunda, Dublin, on the 17th of February, 1846, the following eloquent speech was delivered by Denis Florence McCarthy, in proposing the toast of "The Advancement of Irish Literature": Among the many subjects of interest to which you have done honor on the present occasion, perhaps there is not one of greater importance, one more calculated to advance the interests of the country, and more conducive to general and individual happiness, than the subject of our literature. To my mind, next to the religion of a country, the most important consideration is its literature. If the former realises to the eye of faith all the wonders of the invisible world, and the glories of futurity,' the latter almost renders them palpable to the sense, by" proving the immortality of man in the 'indestructible creations of his mind. If the one teaches us that the spirit world is a reality, and existent thing, above us, arid around us, and within us, the latter comes to its assistance by showing the mysterious and irresistible magnetism of mind. The soul that is fed upon the nectar and ambrosia — thoughts and works, of deathless minds, is of a kin to the gods! The gross material film of mere human nature is removed from its eyes, and like the Grecian chief he goes forth into the battle of human life, and sees the immortals mingling in the combat; the cloudy summits of Olympus are revealed, and he beholds the solemn conclave of the gods watching over the struggles of men! To him the commonest appearances of nature are mysteries and wonders—the rising and the setting of the sun, the awakening of life after "the slumber of the year," the unfolding of the leaf in the reviving trees, the daisies that now sparkle, few and far between, in the freshening fields, like stars in the twilight, fill his heart with ecstasy and gratitude, and awaken within him "thoughts that lie too deep for tears." In his most solitary moments he is never alone; whether he sits in the solitude of his chamber or wanders by "the ribb'd sea sand," or paces the wild and desolate heath, or wends his lonely way along the pathless mountains, he is for ever attended by a band of ministering spirits, the heroes, the sages, and the teachers of the past. And though his heart, perhaps, may be depressed by the casualties of human life, and the necessities of the present, he has ever some "dainty Ariel"-to call upon who can "put a girdle round the earth in 40 minutes," and who can bring from the remotest regions of space and time some pleasant memory, some great example, some divine truth, to strengthen and consolate his heart—- " Yes, in spite of all Some shape of beauty moves away the pall From his dark spirit." Bub it is not in the mere pleasurable emotions of-the heart, or its adaptation to individual wants, that the value of literature consists; it has much higher- objects and much greater results. A great literature is either the creation or the creator of a great people. . When Homer wandered from hamlet to hamlet, and sang "The Tale of Troy Divine" to listening shepherds and rude wayfaring men, he was as a lark singing "from heaven, or near it," and,proclaiming a brilliant day of glory and of greatness to Greece. The forms of loveliness and strength which he created assumed afterwards but a dress of ivory or marble beneath the hands of a Phidias, and when—- " Athens arose, a city .such as vision - >-: Builds from the purple crags and silver towers ' .'*"•■ Of battlemented elouds, as in derision -v.- ;Of kingliest masonry." ■ - > > it was but a realisation and embodiment of those principles of magnificence and consummate beauty— plans

' of the "sublime architect which his songs : had rendered? familiar to all Greece. Let us look nearer homelet us look to England, -'■/■ 'Of the countless millions of m human beings who have inhabited country from athe'.creation to the present hour, what one man is singled from out the crowd, as its greatest treasure and its greatest ornament the fame and greatness of whom England would not barter for her sunny Indias or her snowy Canadas —her Australias or her sugar islands! Was he a 'king-;; 'Ay, every inch a king"—whose lofty brow "doth wear the round and top of sovereignty"a king of willing subjects, whose territory is extending in every point., round even to "the flaming walls of the world." And yet he was, for some 30 years of human life, but, the poor player of . Stratford, or the struggling manager of the Globe (the Globe prophetic name who from the exhaustless riches of his mind drew some 35 pieces of countless value, and flinging them carelessly into • the treasury of human intellect, to supply the wants of the coming ages, he retired to his native town, and the companions of his boyhood, and lived with them as a friend and a brother; and yet this strolling Greek ballad-singer, and this strolling English player, are the greatest boast of their respective countries, i "Still the ghost of Homer clings Bound Scamander's) wasting springs; And divinest Shakespere's might Fills Avon and the world with light.'? r . ' • . ' ■* It is so in other countries. Cervantes, the maimed sol- , dier of Lopanto, and Calderon, the secluded ; priest of Toledo, have given greater glory and more.lasting possessions to Spain than the conquest of. her Cortes or her Cid —and even "Wallace wight, and Bruce the brave," have done less for the permanent fame and greatness of Scotland than the songs of her peasant Burns and the romance and chivalry of her Scott. "And Ireland!" to use the language of the French historian, Mitchelet, "Ireland poor, old, first-born of the Cetlic racethe Isle of Saints! —the Emerald Gem of the sea! —all fruitful Ireland, where men sprout up like grass to the dismay of England, on whose ears the cry jars every day— they are a million more ! —the native land of poets, of bold thinkers, of Johannes Erigena, of Berkley, of Toland country of Moore, the country of O'Connell! —a people of brilliant speech and rapid sword, which still preserves in this, the old age of the world, the power and the glow of poetry!" And now, after one thousand years of suffering, what do we retain? We look back through that troubled vista, and beyond, in the clear serene light of the elder day, we behold the glories of Tara and of Emania, and the whiterobed Druids amid the circling oaks!—and we listen to the voice of song and the holy harmony of harps!and, the clouds close in and we see that sight no more!" Again, the cloudy veil is rent, and we behold a new and fairer scene; amid the sheltering woods and on the sloping hills, venerable monastic walls and grey cathedral spires point to heaven; and the cross, the symbol of Divine love as of human suffering, stands revealed in the clear azure .light! And all within our ocean wall is peace! And these bands of bloodless crusaders who crowd our shores, whither are they bound ? Oh! seek for a reply amid the ruins of Jona, and in the calendars and , martyrologies of Europe. But this vision, too, must have an end, and with it vanishes for countless years all that our memories would wish to treasure, and our eyes behold. True men, doubtless, arose, great chiefs, whose fame has not equalled their deserts — who thought and fought bravely in the service of their country; but not until the Avater of Swift was the seed of our literature, as of our independence, ' committed to the ground former has produced many a golden, har,vest, the latter is ripening with a healthy ear, and will be garnered in God's good time. It is unnecessary in this assembly to do more than allude to the name of Swifthe is the apostle of our freedom, and one of the greatest names in our literature; and we would he unworthy of that freedom, and guilty of treason against that literature, if we for a moment forgot the debt of gratitude we owe to , him. I shall not weary you by dwelling at any length on the merits of our illustrious writers—the brilliancy of Congreve gaiety of Farquhar— tragic power of Southernthe gentle pathos" of Goldsmith sparkling wit of Sheridanthe facetiousness of O'Keefe — philosophical and sublime eloquence of Burke—the, inspired enthusiasm of Curran"the.glory of Grattan genius of Moore" —the dramatic power and thrilling interest of Griffin— reality blended with the Salvator touches of Banim —the promise of ( Dermody—the patriotism jj of Furlongthe harmony of ■-; Callana — s De Foe-like minute- . ness, added to the rich poetical colorings arid ■ characterisation of Carleton —the Fletcher-like graces of Knowles, whose plays smack of mine host's canary, and seem to have been "done z at the Mermaid" — tragedy and eloquence of Shiel — terrific grandeur of Maturinthe miraculous

r rhythm of Mahgan—the taste and acquirements of . Anster ~tHe antiquarian research and chastened enthusiasm of Petriethe historic lore of Dalton —the household lyrics of Lover-—the Petrarchan delicacy of Sbannan, and the ballad r power of Ferguson (the Schiller of our living poets) —with all these,, and many others (some of whom, from obvious motives, I forbea'f -to; mention) you are familiar, and' it would be unpardonable in me on this festive occasion to do more than briefly allude to them. But there is one name, sir, that cannot be omitted name lately used by us in the familiar intercourse of life— name now r glorious and sacred as that of a saint, and only mentioned in the hushed pauses of respect,- and with the trembling-tones of admiration—the illustrious name of Thomas Davis! When I think of. the last time that I sat in this room— I think of the bright glow of enthusiasm that shone in his earnest face, and the admiration 1 with which he gazed on that assembly; and listened to the generous sentiments that were then utteredwhen I think that that eye is now closed, and that heart now cold in, death, I own I feel a grief, a depression, and a despair,, which I cannot shake off. On the other hand, when I recollect the union of parties 'over his grave, and that greater advances to fraternisation were occasioned by his death than might have been gained by years of labor when I believe that, young as he was, he had almost fulfilled his mission, that his example will be followed by ■the young men of Ireland, and that the new life which he infused into our literature will not speedily perish, I cannot be so selfish as to regret that he received from Heaven one of the choicest blessings it has to bestowan early grave "He has outsoared the shadow of our night, Envy and calumny, and hate, and pain; And that unrest, which men miscall delight, Can touch' him not, and torture not again. From the • contagion of the world's slow stain He is secure, and now can never mourn A heart grown colda head grown grey in vain; Nor when the spirit's self had ceased to burn, With sparkless ashes load an unlamented urn." The literary remains of Davis are the rapid harvest of two or three years. They have all the energy, enthusiasm, and poetic tenderness of his character. There may be some of them perhaps less perfect than the rest; but who amongst jus —what number of living men could add to them a single beauty? If they are in any respect defective, they may be compared to the unfinished window in the palace of Aladdin, which the united stores of all the jewellers of the East could not make eaualto the others. Young Ireland.